Vigil
by Nistelle
Summary: The night before the battle at Bethla Garrison, the new leader of the Nanten is ready to be reborn. Warning for a little sex and a lot of the old Hyral duplicity.


A/N: Thanks have to go to Jeretarius for holding an (incredibly generous) FFT contest that incited me to finally write this. For all WotL players, rough glossary below:

-Bethla Garrison - Fort Besselat  
-Nanten - Order of the Southern Sky  
-Balbanes - Barbaneth  
-Hyral - Hieral; Goltana - Goltanna; Orlandu - Orlandeau

* * *

**Vigil**

by Nistelle  
nistelle (at) gmail (dot) com

* * *

Is any human comfort greater than that of a warm place on a cold night? In the fort tavern at Bethla Garrison, fires yawn in two massive grates, but their warmth seems feeble compared to that of the three hundred soldiers there heated by victory and drink. Candlelight dazzles on glass steins and silver mail; shouts and laughter and the clatter of dishes fill the air. Outside the shutters, snow is surely falling. New Year's Eve.

Delita's cheers are the loudest, his toasts the most outrageous. He is hardly able to keep himself in the chair that is as always at his lord Goltana's right side. At times he leans in and says something into his Lordship's ear, and he must somehow be audible above the din because each time Goltana erupts into laughter, beating the massive oak banquet table with his fist, and the light gleams off Delita's grin.

Tomorrow, they, the Nanten elite, shall take the battle at Bethla, and so tomorrow they shall take the world. His Highness Prince Druksmald Goltana will become His Majesty King Druksmald the first, and for them, the small brotherhood who have been loyal from start to finish, nothing will be out of reach. Coffers and treasury, fields, fiefdoms, acres, and estates, titles and honors, all will bestowed upon them like a shower of gold. Everything is ready for them, now; everything is waiting. Everything that was once possibility is now promise.

A blast of icy air: three soldiers have squeezed their way in through the huge oaken doors, and they stamp snow from their boots, stumbling all over each other, exhausted with laughter. Drunk as lords.

"An hour till midnight," one shouts over the din, as the tavernkeeper and his daughter struggle to pull the doors closed behind them. "Sin while you still can!"

There is enthusiastic agreement from all, and another round -- the eleventh, the twelfth? -- ordered at once. But his Lordship Prince Goltana does not join in the call.

Delita notices Goltana's unusual silence, and frowns at it. Is it, he wonders, perhaps too loud for his Lordship here? They could retire to the back room -- or perhaps it's time to dismiss the officers to their barracks?

Certainly not. No, that's not it at all. Goltana takes a long draft of wine. He rests his goblet on the table, hands joined around the stem. Finally he wonders, gruffly, if Delita has ever heard of the vigil.

The vigil? Delita tilts his head. Well, there is the knight's vigil, in the old tales.

What has Delita heard? -- in the old tales.

Smiling a little, Delita sits back in his chair, as though about to recall a fond memory. He's read many accounts of the same story. On the night of a feast-day, the squire is taken to church, bathed in holy water and cleansed of sin, clothed in white raiment and left to stay awake with only God as company until dawn. And when his attendants open the doors in the morning, the squire is gone; in his place they find, newly born and shining, a knight.

Goltana takes a sip from his goblet.

It's not quite so dramatic now, when the Academies simply promote lists of graduating cadets with a sweep of a pen. A pity, in Delita's opinion.

Goltana wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Actually, in truth, it lives on.

The vigil? Delita is surprised.

In some cases. For some obscure, very obscure, orders -- Noyan, Paladin, that sort of thing, all extinct for decades. But also in certain special circumstances. For the captain, for instance, of the king's army.

After a moment Goltana glances at Delita, and laughs.

Come, he thought Delita quicker in his wits than this! The Nanten, soon-to-be army of all Ivalice, are on the eve of their victory, and yet have no one to lead them there. Goltana himself, soon to be king, has no captain of the guard, no second-in-command. And while the choice, for Goltana, was both obvious and easy, decorum and tradition demand a certain degree of ceremony before it can be made official. And so.

Delita opens his mouth to speak, but seems unable to.

The cathedral is all prepared for him. The vigil begins at midnight, and there is the ritual to be completed first, so Delita may want to make haste.

But -- but surely Delita has not earned -- surely Delita cannot deserve an honor such as this?

A ridiculous question, one that doesn't deserve an answer. But, Delita can continue to blather the night away, if he wishes, and Goltana will be forced to appoint the wheelwright or the drummer boy in his stead. Which certainly will take Larg by surprise tomorrow, though not in the way Goltana had hoped.

Helplessly Delita shakes his head and laughs a little, his shoulders shaking. He rises from his chair -- only to kneel, at Goltana's feet, and kiss his Lordship's hand. Words cannot express his gratitude; his thanks can never be enough.

Perhaps not -- Goltana, goblet empty, hails the tavernkeeper with his free hand -- but, all things considered, Delita's haste would be more appreciated than his thanks at the moment.

Delita stands up. Are those tears in his eyes? He brushes at them with his sleeve, and they are clear.

With his Lordship's leave?

Goltana, laughing again, waves him away in exasperation, his goblet outstretched to be filled.

And so Delita makes his way down the table and across the room, sidestepping the servers and their silver platters stacked high with roasts and fowl and sweetmeats. As he passes the soldiers, they shout greetings and goodwill to him. He raises a hand with a smile in reply, but says nothing. Later, when the soldiers mention this to each other, they will all agree: in his eyes and in his manner, it was clear. Delita was already somewhere else.

Yes, he is silent and solemn as he emerges from the tavern into the night, so much that he does not even flinch from the shock of the cold. The sentries who watch him pass, who all know him, are afraid to speak to him; such is the gravity Delita has as he walks through the snowfall, his head bowed, cloak rippling behind him in the wind.

But at the cathedral they have been expecting him. Even as he climbs the steps, a page opens the door for him, and in the foyer takes his cloak as Delita taps the snow from his boots.

All the cathedral's candles have been lit, as if for midnight mass, and though there is no fire, the air is comfortably warm, and fragrant. Delita recognizes the light scent of rosewater and the sweetness of chrism oil. It is the baptismal font, behind the altar. Steam rises from the scented pool within, growing thicker as two more pages pour their pitchers of heated water into the bath. A priest, dressed unusually in the cloth-of-gold vestments and resting on a crooked wooden staff, directs them. He is so old that his head has sunken lower than his shoulders, tucked to one side of his breast; his gray beard falls to his knees like a long woolen scarf.

He notices Delita.

Ah -- he must come in -- in, out of the cold!

The page with Delita's cloak holds out one hand toward the altar. Delita pauses; and then, slowly, walks the length of the aisle.

He has never been in this particular cathedral before. He's never seen the polished dark pews, or the carved marble apses, or the gold sunburst mosaic in the floor tiles. It's all very unusual: a fort church tends to be a basic thing, built fast and stout, with no time or quarter given for beauty.

Delita has noticed the detail, has he? The old priest smiles at him. Yes, it is an old cathedral, one of the oldest in Ivalice, built back when men thought the house of God should look worthy of His presence.

As he speaks, two of the pages are removing Delita's armor. They work with speed and care, gently placing all the pieces on a table nearby. The third page has finished filling the bath, adding at the very end a single porcelain ewer's worth of fresh milk. Now he joins them, beginning to polish Delita's armor with a clean square of felt and tallow from a silver tin.

The priest takes Delita's hand as the two pages kneel to unlace his boots. Delita knows, he is sure, of the honor given him tonight. But he must also know, before the vigil begins, that the honor is not from Lord Goltana alone. God, too, has chosen him for this task, or else he would not be here. Does Delita understand?

Delita shivers as the air touches his bare skin. He nods once; he understands.

Good. Good.

They lead him to the bath. The pages dip their pitchers into the warm fragrant water and pour it upon his shoulders, his back, his neck. Delita follows their gentle direction and raises his arms, tilts his head, turns when needed.

It is the old priest who finally breaks the silence.

Delita need not put on a facade here. He need not hide. The priest knows what he's truly thinking.

Abruptly Delita turns to him.

The priest gives a soft chuckle. Delita needn't look so shocked! The priest is old, very old. He has done this for -- oh, so many knights past. He anointed, with his own fingers, the forehead of Balbanes Beoulve. Orlandu -- Orlandu himself -- stood in the very spot where Delita now stands. The priest knows what a knight is thinking on the eve of his vigil.

Does he.

The priest nods, and Delita watches as, slowly, dragging one foot, he makes his way up to the baptismal font. There, he leans heavily on his staff, and brings his hand to rest upon Delita's brow.

He is afraid. Isn't he.

Delita stares at the priest.

He need not be ashamed. There is no shame in fear. But he must tell the priest what it is he fears.

Delita does not reply. But there is, unmistakably, something in his expression that was not there before; something no one but the priest has seen tonight. He turns his head away.

When they've finished, the two pages wrap a thick mantle of soft cotton around Delita's shoulders and lead him from the bath, drying him so quickly and thoroughly that he never feels the cold. The third page, finished with his armor, appears with a tunic and breeches of shining white smoothness: the three of them have dressed Delita before he has a chance to marvel at the extraordinary fineness of the fabric.

As they lace his sleeves, Delita realizes. The garments are new. It is the first time in his life he has ever worn anything new.

The priest, smiling, is still watching Delita, waiting for an answer. And when Delita does answer at last, it is to the altar before him, where a beautifully carved statue of St. Ajora holds out one hand as if in offering.

Delita fears -- that he will prove unworthy.

Ah.

After a minute, the old priest shuffles down to join Delita at the altar.

That, Delita should know, is a good fear. It's the right fear.

Delita glances at the priest, but he is looking at the statue.

If he didn't fear himself unworthy, he would be so. Because none of them, not one, are ever worthy of Him -- of His gifts, or His favor, or His love. It is only when they decide to give themselves, every part of themselves, over to Him alone, that they become something greater than the base creatures they fear themselves to be. In his heart, Delita already knows this. It is why he is here tonight.

The pages are refastening Delita's armor, now polished to a mirror shine. But only the peripherals: his shin- and thigh-guards, his gauntlets, his bracers. His breastplate they leave behind, as though to keep his heart vulnerable to anything that might touch it during the night. And then the last page steps forward with Delita's sheathed sword, and lays it carefully across the altar.

Everything is ready, the priest tells Delita, as the pages withdraw, to begin extinguishing the candles with their long-handled brass snuffers. At the stroke of midnight -- very soon now -- Delita's sacred watch will begin. Whatever he sees or hears through the long night, be it wondrous or terrible, he must not be afraid. He must never forget, never, what the priest has told him.

No, Father. Delita kneels at the altar. The only light now is from the moon, shining through the stained-glass window above him. No -- Delita closes his eyes -- he will not forget.

One last touch of the priest's fingers on his brow. Then the sound of his long slow shuffle down the aisle, to the foyer, where the pages are waiting. Deep creak of door hinges. Asudden cold draft stirs Delita's hair, then dies abruptly with an echoing boom. Sound of keys in locks, heavy wood pushed into place; they are barring the doors. Then, silence.

Delita opens his eyes. The altar alone shines in the darkness, bathed in an eerie many-hued moonlight. The only sound is his own breathing -- even the sounds outside, of a New Year's night, are muted, somehow unreal. He rests his palms on his knees, waiting.

It takes perhaps ten minutes, perhaps twenty, but it comes at last. Even these ancient walls, stone and three feet thick, cannot keep out the first booming toll of midnight from the massive bell of Bethla's watchtower.

The moment Delita hears it he is on his feet, taking his sword from the altar. He slides it into place on his belt in one smooth motion as he walks swiftly, keeping to the shadows, to an alcove at the back of the cathedral: the priest's rectory.

Hanging on a nail is a cloak Delita placed there this morning. As he wraps it around his shoulders, he takes a key from a pocket sewn inside, unlocks the door. He's moving faster now. The bell has already tolled thrice.

The rectory is tiny and pitch-black, but Delita knows the way to the side door there, the one that leads the alley behind the cathedral. He closes everything behind him, leaving no hint or trace, and walks into the night. Everything is done with the utmost speed, with complete silence.

Until he reaches the main avenue, where all the fort's soldiers, it seems, have come to roar out the New Year with the force of their own lungs. Then Delita is all motion and noise: he laughs, he staggers drunkenly, beating soldiers on the back and letting his own back be beaten; joining them in clumsy celebration, his face, like theirs, half-hidden in his cloak -- it's cold enough, isn't it; the bloody cold! None of them take the slightest notice of him as he stumbles and falters his way among them, down the entire avenue, until he reaches the fort wall and the lookout tower.

Then he slips into the shadows again, and around the entire tower, the long way. The bell is at its tenth toll, but he must be sure no one sees him. At last he comes to the door, where a guard is waiting.

Delita is sorry to be late.

Oh, no, not at all. The guard hands him a key. He's is right on time, in fact, isn't he?

Well, close enough, Delita hopes. The guard should still be able to join in on most of the fun, if he's fast enough.

The guard laughs quietly. Maybe so, but in truth right now it's a drink and a warm bed that seems the most appealing. Till morning, wasn't it, sir?

Yes, dawn; Delita thanks him.

Not at all. The guard wishes him good-night and takes his leave.

The last stroke of twelve booms in the distance, and Delita is unlocking the tower with a trembling hand. He waits until he's gotten inside, closed and re-locked the door, before he takes a moment to close his eyes, cover his hand, still the tremors.

It won't do; this night is too important. It is up to him to be the guide here. It won't do to flush and fumble like a schoolboy.

That's better. Delita begins to climb the spiral staircase, careful to keep hold of the rail. The damp from his boots leaves dark marks on the stone that will be gone by morning. The rest of him is dry, or near enough, the snow was so light.

The higher Delita climbs, the tighter the winding of the staircase, and the fainter the sounds of celebration from outside. Soon they are nothing but a murmur in the distance. At the last slit window, Delita pauses. This high, he can see over the fort walls, to the dark mass of Bethla Reservoir. The water's shifting surface is flecked with ice floes which themselves look like snowflakes, seen this far off.

If only his heart wasn't beating so fast.

At last Delita reaches the top of the tower. He knocks once on the door, very softly, and steps in.

Ovelia stood up the moment he entered, and now she sets her book aside. She'd been reading -- scripture, Delita recognizes the gilded cover -- with the use of a candle, but more light comes from the fireplace, which has been generously fed with timber for this, such a cold evening.

Delita closes the door behind him. Neither of them speaks for a moment, until Ovelia, still standing, watching him, says,

"It is as you have hoped?"

A tremor goes through Delita's legs, but she doesn't see it, and he could not have stopped it. "Yes."

It is all as he knew it would be. Ovelia stands before him in the firelight, her hair unbound and shining, her breath coming in fast faint little gusts that he can only just see in the chill of the room. Such dear delicate breaths; they're gone almost as soon as they appear.

Her cheeks are flushed, that complexion of white and red that he has found so fascinating. Her lips, too, flushed and full, her throat moving quick with her breaths like a bird's. She is looking at him.

"We have all night," Delita hears himself saying, before he can stop to consider the words, how they must sound to her.

But Ovelia just nods. She nodded before he finished. She didn't know what he would say, but she would agree to anything -- she trusts him -- she would go with him anywhere.

Delita has crossed the room in one step. He pulls her to him, holds her by the cheeks, kisses her again and again. Each of her gasps is a hot little twist of the coil tightening inside him.

But then she whimpers against his mouth, and it's a sound Delita recognizes. He pulls back.

"Ovelia," he says, resting one hand on the small of her back. "Are you afraid?"

Her eyes are downcast. She moves her mouth, but makes no reply.

Delita feels something in his chest, an ache. "Oh, Ovelia, dove, don't be afraid. Don't be afraid."

"I'm sorry," she whispers. She closes her eyes; she still won't look at him. "I didn't think I would -- it's only --"

Gently Delita pulls away from her and walks away, to the fireplace.

Behind him, he can hear her. She takes a few steps, as though to follow him, then stops, faltering.

"Wait," she says to his back. "Wait, Delita, please."

He doesn't answer. He's busy unfastening his gauntlets. His bracers are next, and his shin- and thigh-guards, then his belt. His boots, placed upright next to the hearth. Last of all, he lays his sword across the mantle; his fingers linger upon it for only a moment, before he turns back to Ovelia.

She's watching him, her hands held to her breast. She watches him as he walks to her, and Delita can see her shivering. But then her eyes grow wide.

Delita has dropped to one knee before her, his arms crossed, his head bowed, his eyes closed, motionless. Waiting for her.

"Delita," she says. Then, "Oh, Delita," as she lowers herself to the floor. She takes his hands in her own and kisses them, tears wet on her cheeks; then she takes him by the face and kisses his lips.

And after that, all is set into motion, as Delita knew it would be. His hands pulling now at both their clothes, heedless, everything hot and sweet like in a dream. There's no time to take her to the bed, to do this as is proper -- but then didn't both of them start refusing the proper thing long ago?

Besides, there is his cloak and hers, and the hearthrug, and the fire, and so it is perfect this way; it is perfect. It's so perfect that other men might lose control at this moment, but not Delita. He sets her on him so slowly, with such infinite patience and deliberation, that she does not cry out or whimper or even wince, only breathes slow and deep through her open mouth, staring into his eyes.

Other men might lose control. Other men might not be able to help but rush to the end, to the seize of pleasure, but not Delita. For Delita, this, now, is the ultimate pleasure.

This lilting crescendo: this is the moment he has been waiting for, the moment he wants to remember and enshrine. This second that grew so round and ripe during all those nights of planning and hoping and imagining is finally at its fullest, unbearable sweetness. All the toil, the tears, all the work it took to get here: all is done, everything is in place.

Deeper up, deeper in; Ovelia gasps and holds him tighter. Everything is potential now. The two of them, the night itself. In the morning the year will be new, the snow smooth upon the field, everything perfect and ready, needing only to unfold. He and Ovelia too, after this night. They will become the people they have always wanted to be.

Yes, she's joining him. Delita won't be alone. He reaches between them, palms her and rubs. At her breathless cry and the sound of his name, Delita feels the heat of her, of the fire, ripple through every inch of his skin. So, then. The moment is near. Let it come; he is ready, they are both ready.

Here. Now. It is now. He is ready, and thank you, God, thank you, he is ready at last.

* * *


End file.
